The corners hold the demons
by CarolineWrites
Summary: The story of how two dark souls meet in a dark place. TW: drug abuse. TW: death. TW: hints of abuse. Rated M for a reason. Oneshot. Not romantic.


They met in group therapy. Out of all the places in the world, they met there. He was new, judging by the shaking of his hands. Not even a week into the road to sobriety. She had been there for nearly two months, still in recovery, still an addict. A girl like her had arrangements. Small packages of white powder being delivered to her by a trainee desperate for extra money. Though she couldn't use the syringe, snorting the powder did the job, though it was a poor imitation.

The man next to her was shaking, not paying attention as another one of the pathetic people talked about their life and choices and how they ended up there and how much they wanted to sober up. For family, for loved ones, for themselves, for their job. Lies, lies, lies. All they wanted was to get out, to get back to old sins. Out of habit, the girl glanced at the dark-haired man next to her. His white t-shirt did not reveal any puncture wounds like hers would have, had she not worn a long-sleeved shirt underneath, despite the fact that it was July and boiling hot. She wrote him off as a cocaine addict, and he didn't look the type to do pills. Alcohol. That was his poison. It had been hers as well, once. But that was a long time ago. Before things got bad. When the drink stopped working, she had turned to other things, supplied by the on-again/off-again boyfriend. She blamed the heroin on him.

The constant shaking of the man's hands was infuriating. Sighing, the girl let her own hands clasp his shaking ones, the light tremors of her own hands nothing compared to his. She did not look at him, failing to notice the puzzled expression on his face.

"Grantaire."

The name meant nothing, but the hall was empty, everyone else still eating. She did not have any appetite to speak of. Drugs had been enough for so long that the fact that she could easily count her ribs no longer mattered. He repeated himself, and when she persisted in ignoring him, he grasped her arm, willing her to turn.

"Tell me your name," he insisted, voice shaking as badly as his hands. Early recovery, obviously. Rehabilitation was going to be tough on him.

Still, the girl decided to be fair to him. Indulge him. "Éponine." He had smiled, ever so slightly, then let go and stood there as she marched to her room, where a present from home awaited.

It's been two weeks. His hands no longer shake as much, and he insists that she calls him 'R' when they speak. He takes to calling her 'Ponine, and though she loathes the name, she tolerates it. It is almost like having a friend. So she shares. Tells him about the addiction (though not the details of it), and the arrangement she has (though not the details there either). Her doses are smaller than what she normally would have liked, but it is sweet and blissful heroin and that is good enough. She licks the paper clean after snorting the rows. The first time he saw he looked disgusted, but now he no longer bats an eyelid. They sneak into each other rooms at night, talking until the wee hours of the night. She is excellent at picking locks. The family business taught her as much.

They begin sleeping with each other after a month. Both of them are physical beings, rough around the edges from pasts unshared and unspoken of. His hands are hard, and hers return equal measures of pain. There is nothing to it, only blissful relief where no other can be found.

She's gotten him a deal as well, now. Small bottles of Jaeger and vodka make their way into her care package, and she hides it until they see each other. They take their medicine, and in the bliss of relief from the nightmare of abstinence, they claw at the other's exposed flesh, leaving marks and bruises that neither can explain to the nurses when they inspect them. It does not matter. They have made an oath, both of them ready to take the other one down should they have to. However, friendship in a place such as this is of the upmost importance. They cannot allow themselves to lose the solid rock in the stormy sea. Darkness already surrounds her, but he is a light and a distraction from the nightmares that come so quickly.

Her supplier and the trainee eventually get caught. The nightmare begins, properly this time. She vomits, curses and yells and bites and claws at whoever dares come near her. Barricades herself in, not even allowing him to look at her. But he comes anyways.

"Drink the fucking water, 'Ponine." "Wipe your mouth." "Eat the fucking bread, 'Ponine." "'Ponine, for Christ sake, stop fucking hitting me."

It makes no sense in her mind. Her eyes do not see. Everything is twisted. Her body screams for relief, for the drug she craves beyond all. She trembles as if she has a fever, and in her nightmarish recovery she fucks R into the long hours of the night, cursing everyone and everything until she's worn down enough to fall asleep into a new nightmare. He does not say anything, does not stop her, because he knows she needs it. Even though he has a guy he desires above all at home, he lets her. Because in a place where demons are everywhere, the dark girl with the scars and showing ribs is the closest thing he has to an ally. A friend, even. Perhaps a best friend, if either of them were the type to have best friends.

He is let out three months later, clean and sober. She is left to look at him through the barred window of her room. Dark, matted hair. Sunken cheeks. Skin that looks pale despite the natural color of her skin. The nurses worry.

She does not eat. Does not drink. Does not speak. Does not sleep. All she does is sit in silence, watching her hands tremble as she waits for him to write as he promised.

Weeks go by. No letter. She is giving up hope when there is a knock on her door. A nurse she hasn't bothered to learn the name of opens it without her consent.

"Éponine, dear, there's a letter for you." She wants to snarl back that she is not this woman's 'dear', but the letter is a distraction. Immediately, she knows it is not from her family. They don't give a shit. Her little brother, maybe, but she wouldn't tell him the address, made him stay with a friend instead. Told him to stay safe in the streets. No, this letter can only come from one person. So the girl tears the letter from the nurse's hands and snarls at her to "get out".

In the silence that remains, there is only the girl and the letter.

_Dear Éponine,_

That's odd, she thinks. This writing was not one she could connect with the man she'd spent many a night with. Perhaps it was the residue of the drugs playing tricks on her.

_My name is Enjolras._

Ah, there is was. Confirmation.

_Grantaire made me swear to write this, should he be unable to. This certainly counts. He had returned to the bottle. Now he drinks more than ever. I am afraid he'll drink himself to death soon._

Quite an accomplishment, if he did. An overdose on heroin, maybe, but alcohol was a far bigger challenge. She would congratulate him if he ever succeeded. Go to the funeral and give the picture a grim smile and a "well done". Shock the grieving crowd as she went to sit in the back, wearing sunglasses to disguise the ever-present bags.

_Grantaire speaks of you often. I believe he misses you. When you get out, contact me. I'll give you my address and you can stay until you're back on your feet._

Underneath there was a telephone number scribbled down, again accompanied by the name. Enjolras. Humming, she folded up the letter and put it away. She did not take charity. The letter would not see daylight again. At least, not because of her.

She gets out, in the end. However, it only takes a week for her to overestimate her tolerance. Alone, she overdoses. She is only found the next morning, when her brother comes over to have breakfast with her. By then, the body is stiff and beginning to ever so faintly smell of decay.

The service is pathetic. A handful of people show up, and apart from her brother and him, the boy turned friend turned friend with benefits, none genuinely grieve. A sad display. Fit for the sad shadow of a girl who has left. With her broken skin and bruises and matted hair.

Lonely in life, lonely in death.


End file.
